Bomb Cyclone and its Effects on Harvard - 6

A Novella

6

Shared sacrifice: bankers get shares. You get sacrificed. It is our lot in life, except for the few who climb up the ladder and are awarded obscene amounts of money. Then they have 2 protect this money to hand it to their progeny - who proceed to spend it like the wind. As they walked away from John Harvard's, it occurred to me that the sorts of men these are my destiny - good providers, reasonable conversationalists - if nothing extraordinary - and bearers of the next generations genes. It was a depressing thought - because there was definitely something more to be had from this world.

While we were walking, in a timeless mode that only college students can understand - my pseudo-date tried again to start un tête-à-tête – If he had started a little before, it would not have happened - instead, he would find myself in a nonplussed state of mind - where too many things were spinning around too hard. Almost, discountenance - but not quite there yet. But instead, the intonation was from a willingness to listen to what he had to say - not excited particularly, not hanging on every word – certainly.

The nuages had rolled in, but there was no snow, sleet, or any form of precipitation on the pavement - we were walking “up” Massachusetts Avenue – “Mass Ave” correcting myself - and into the land of suburbia. Then the 2 men directed us up a street that was wide and narrow, on the right there was a park, with an enormous number of trees spreading out along the always, and on the left there was - after the street course - some low well kept up houses, that were part of the universities per view. It is here Lukas began to talk, with Charles and Lily about 10 feet in front of us, and engaged in their conversation:

“You seemed almost animated back there, and you certainly do not mince words about President Trump.” There was hesitation in his voice as if he was going to reveal something ominous.

“It is obvious he is one of the worst presidents, don't you agree?”

“Well in truth, yes, but it is more complex when you are at one of the Ivy League institutions because a number of the people who are here are from the very elite class.”

Dropping my tone down I whisper: “Like Charles?”

It was there that he dropped his voice down: “His father is negotiating to name a building after him - Charles is bright enough to get in, but he has 3 siblings who are not bright enough to get in, without encouragement.”

“You mean – money.” Lucre might be a better fit.

“Let us call it, a well-timed donation.”

There was a pause, and I looked at the back of Lily and Charles. With the money that Charles had, he was better to catch than she could otherwise do - so long as you sell your soul to the reactionary party. Lily would do just about anything for that. It was sometime during this point where we took a slight right, it was obvious that Charles and Lukas knew where they were going. We just walked past a hotel, which blared its name in red letters - which from here we could not read, but we were not the customers it was trying to reach. Almost everything is advertising - you have to fight for any actual news. Signs – signs everywhere - and nowhere to interlink (thank you Coleridge Taylor for your The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. )

“So – where are we going?” It does not hurt to ask.

“To my room – I drew the old Radcliffe dorms – specifically Currier House.”

“What about Charles?”

At this moment, he looked at the pair – and it was a pair, though when that became true happened in the interval when Lukas was holding my attention: “I don't think he will be staying with me – but he will have company.” Point taken. Just because he was not a genius, doesn't mean he was not bright.

His hand grew fidgety and tried to take hold of mine. At 1st I resisted and moved the entire arm away from his, however, he persisted - and finally got what he wanted - our hands were interlocked. I have to say it was pleasant, and the fastening of limbs grew to be pleasant. His face grew calm - clearly, this was what he wanted from the beginning. Just as clearly, the response from them had softened. There was a bond between us, perhaps because I did not have anything on my hands - so they were cold by themselves, and the warming touch came as a relief. However, what came after holding hands was a mystery - because it was clear that Lukas wanted decidedly more touch than I was presently willing to offer him.

“How much further is it?” - a delaying move on my part. Decisions had been made, and a timetable needed to be established. He pointed to a building made of modern brick, it was close at hand, and that meant that choices were becoming imminent. Which from my perspective, was bad. Pressure was not something that heightened my perception - it is one thing to have a pattern, and executed - as getting out of my house was a planned exercise. Is quite another thing to make to make a resolution and keep it, whatever the pressures that other people might weigh against it. That was the quandary. My heart palpitating - it was not just an intellectual exercise, but was down in my biome as well - my intestines churned.

Then we entered a thick double door - made of glass and one could see within it. There was a desk, and Lukas bent over and signed for the group of us. It was clear that the security was - shelved say - lax. But at least they had us sign in, for whatever good that did.

One of the hallmarks of privilege is that you don't need to understand why what you just said was incredibly offensive. Confirmation is when you feel you can get offended when this is pointed out. Lukas did not understand how he put them under great pressure - between the pleasure that holding his hand offered - and the Inestimable desire which he had to do far more than old hands - at 17, one had to know what was coming. If on the cosmic scale of things, occupation is cancer that empires die off; on the micro-scale of things, desire is the same thing on a personal level. The male desires to not consult his target – he just wants to do whatever he wants. And since I was the target - I could feel the gentle soothing going on. I was being lulled - but at the same time, it was an amiable sensation. My body was against me.

Somehow we walked up the stairs, two flights, and into the oak door that separated the public from the private - without me noticing that we had done so. There was a flutter from my hand that contorted my feelings - a warm gushing of nerves that would not - or could not - be made to do anything but Grip into the mirror image that was The Palm. It was overwhelming, enticing, and disgusting all at once. I was hooked. Some time in that sequence, I heard the door close - and we were alone.

Now, you did not even need the pleasure of the hand, because now he was in front of me and - in the most formal way – osculating, and not to a tangent at the point of contact – the Lips you what they wanted even if the Brain was not quite so sure. This began a constant recursion - each moment is and wants to strip me of some item, and each moment my hand was a willing partner and yet unwilling. As to result, each time, was a half-hearted struggle - which in the end made the item ripped away. And then after the ripping, my body had a struggle as to whether this was good - because the freeing of it was intense - or inopportune, messy, disagreeable. It was bad because of the same reason it was good - the liberating freedom was not under my control, but his.

The dress was a hassle - and was definitely not my idea. I felt nude and under his weight.

And this is what tipped the balance - there I was with nothing but panties and bra - trying to form the word “stop”. To sermonize the word, while he was mashing his entire body into mine, was not possible. It seemed like he had more than 2 hands, and they were pressing, pressing, pressing. In fact, I could hardly breathe - let alone anything else that came to mind. Lukas was on autopilot - he too was under the grip of primal intentions. The difference was: that he liked them without distraction. It was this difference - between conflicted and elated - that finally formed a crystal difference between us.

We were on the bed - though again I did not realize it until it had happened.

The panties were off. My legs were spread. He was violating me. There are no words for the things that I felt. No long soliloquy. Nor short curses. There is only the tension that I felt and the frozen feeling of unfreedom that it leaves behind. At the trip of the wired my mouth is off to the races and my brain is spinning to bell the bronco and bash its will to my own. Now, I was just an infotainment vididiot without any popcorn.

The abomination was - he enjoyed it.

There was no tearing, but thrusting, and finally Forcing. Over and over again, without him being aware of what he was doing to my body. It was as if there was a rhythm which I could not stop. He enjoyed every movement, every thrust, every sacrilege. The power over me was the tang that he craved. The force was that tang.

Craving variation friction and thermal expansion kinetic friction.

Gulp down the air, and wheeze phlebotomy. Rag doll living in a slow-motion sepia-toned hellscape.

To coerce the coefficient of his Gangliosidosis diatribe.

And the in, and out. Input. Input. InoutInoutinoutinoutinout. A despoilment foretold.

In the back of my mind - the conscious part of my brain - noted he was particularly terrible at this. I then realized this was bad sex. I noted that I had been raped - and one little part of my brain copied down all of the signs. While the rest of my body was screaming on the inside, but making no sound on the outside.

The sweat from his neck. The mash of the lips. A gulp of air for me – but frictionless silk from him.

And then he stopped. There was a flow, but not from me.

And then he collapsed from exhaustion. Il faut bonne mémoire après qu'on a menti.

And then I was alone - he was snoring, and I could not escape. I had to disentwine myself from his clutches slowly - but carefully so that this did not wake him - in the least.

I quickly counted the number of days since my last period - it was a reflex because that single number meant everything. I gathered up my clothes And shoved them on my body, which was warm to the touch but cold, on an emotional level, though not physically so. And with my jacket on scurried to the main entrance and out into the white cloud and green grass suburbia that was still part of Cambridge.

At least there was only my breath in the air. Streetlights were blaring, car lights were screeching. And the indoor lights were caressing. It looked like a slice of life, told by evening hues, lost in the hinterland. Where nothing ever untoward happens - it just was not done here. Grimace.

As the T-shirt says: “Call after 11, the rates are cheaper.” It is an old joke from when telephones were part of the room, not the person.

Then to made my way to Harvard, and hoped that there was still a train.

But on the sidewalk, a car stopped and the passenger's side door opened - inside, grinning, but not in a funny sort of way, was Sai.

“Going somewhere? If so I could be persuaded to give you a lift.”

“How did you know?”

“Lily and her significant other showed up at a party, while you were not there. It was not hard to do the math. And Lukas is notorious for inviting females up to his room.”

“So I am not the 1st?” Of course, I knew that. It was obvious in retrospect - stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I have been so blasé about the transparent signs? It was like my brain had been turned off, perhaps because it knew and did not want to tell the rest of me. Again - stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Billions and billions and billions, not the 1st. One might even have to invent a new word.”

Glugillans and Glugillians and Glugillians.